


Funeral For a Friend

by Devolucao



Category: Naruto
Genre: Chuunin Exams, Gen, Slice of Life, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devolucao/pseuds/Devolucao
Summary: Life goes on in Konoha, come war or celebration.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Funeral For a Friend


    Summer is festival season.
    
    Summer in Konoha is hot, humid, and filled with endless committee meetings; play and music rehearsals; wet paint and paper mache. It's peak season for eel and ume; bitter melon; tomato, pumpkin, okra. For students, summer means vacation; splashing around in creaks; catching frogs and crawfish and snapping turtles; doing your homework out on the porch or balcony or roof; lighting off firecrackers and eating cold watermelon in the grass. No worries or cares in summertime. Winter is but a distant memory, and war is something old people talk and reminisce about whenever their rheumatism acts up.  
    
    Exam years mean a bit of extra work for the older kids, but there is still an air of not taking things very seriously. Students are regularly killed or crippled out in the forest, but that's all good and normal when it's not you or one of your teammates. You are focused solely on ranking and being promoted. Some adult you've barely interacted with was killed last night, and you are sitting at the breakfast table having the word subterfuge explained to you by your very haggard looking parents, and wondering if this is what it means to be a grown up finally. You're wondering if things will have to be canceled now. Will you be drafted tomorrow if they end up declaring war? You're only thirteen. You haven't had your first kiss.
    
    Sure, you know how to use a weapon, but you've never killed anybody before.
    
    What happens when you do? You've heard that people void their bowels when they die. You're not sure you could stomach if that happens. You're not sure you could stomach the blood. But you want to rank so badly. You want to be promoted. You want to fight, and you want to win. You don't want to die, having voided your own bowels, but if you do, you at least hope it will be quick, as you imagine it was for that poor Jounin last night.
    
    The waiting is the worst part; not knowing what'll happen next. Not just tomorrow, but two weeks from now. In a month or two, or six, surely they'll be feeling the economic impact of a war that keeps waiting to happen, of being told to mobilize or shelter in place. There's already been talk of rationing amongst the old-heads: of  times they had to net songbirds, and forage for roots and grubs, because there was nothing else to eat. 
    
    Hell, Iwashi says he's heard people joking about cannibalism.    
    
    Aoba looks up from his station by the tea carafe. "You think they were joking?"
    
    Genma's right there beside him, arms folded, toothpick set firmly in place, slowly shaking his head.
    
    Aoba continues, whilst blowing to cool his tea: "Ask anyone you know over fifty, Iwashi; like your Uncle, for instance. I'm sure he'll tell you--"
    
    "Oh, stop it," Raidou interrupts. "The two of you...."
    
    Aoba casts a look askance at Genma. "I've heard it tastes like veal."
    
    Genma says, "I've heard a cross between lamb and pork."
    
    "Where'd you hear that?" Raidou asks, not that anybody is eating people.
    
    Genma shrugs and says he doesn't know; he just heard is all. Anyway, since Iwashi brought it up, why not ask him? Where has he heard people talk about cannibalism?
    
    Iwashi quietly clears his throat. "....my Uncle." He then hastily amends, "He's never eaten anybody!"
    
    "That you know of," says Genma.
    
    Aoba nods in agreement. "Never underestimate the lengths a person will go to for survival," he says. "If it came down to it, I'd eat every single one of you. In a heartbeat. You especially, Genma."
    
    "I beg your damn pardon?"
    
    "I don't mean this in a negative way," Aoba says, unperturbed. "But out of all of us, your flesh would have the most marbling. Don't you agree?"
    
    "It might," says Genma, with an ominous eyebrow lift, "but are you absolutely certain you'll live long enough to taste it?"
    
    And before Aoba can open his mouth--all the better for Genma to reach in and pull out his tongue--Raidou calls a sharp time out.
    
    He understands the need for levity at a time like this, but the conversation has run its course, and this isn't worth the bloodshed. Nobody is eating anybody, he says, and that is final.
    
    Aoba sinks in on himself with a sigh. "I suppose we could just order a pizza." 
    
    Genma nods. "We're all okay with ham and pineapple?"
    
    Aoba shrugs in defeat.
    
    There is further talk of ordering two small pies, rather than one large, for the sake of those who are not utter heathens, but they are interrupted by a messenger before Iwashi--having drawn the short straw--is able to run off an order.
    
    He is brief and to the point: Hayate's funeral wake will be held ten a.m. tomorrow at the memorial pavilion, rain or shine. All are welcome to attend.
    
    It's news they'd been waiting for, that nonetheless dulls the appetite and casts a pall on the room. There is no more talk of eating people, or whether or not pineapple has any business being on a pizza, and it is not until dinner that night, after several beers, they dare even speak of Hayate at all.
    
    He was very much in the anti pineapple camp, Genma recalls, and whether you agreed with him or not, you had to respect a man who stood by his principles like that in the clutch.  
    
    "Right, we all still think you're a heathen," says Raidou. "Both you and Iwashi."
    
    Aoba raises his glass. "Here, here. Fruit belongs in a parfait, not on a pizza."
    
    "Tomato's a fruit," says Genma.
    
    "It's a savory fruit," says Aoba. "So is the cucumber, neither of which belongs in a dessert. Do you see what I'm saying? Sweet, savory; savory, sweet."
    
    "Yeah, yeah," Genma waves his hand dismissively. "'Knowledge is learning the tomato is fruit, wisdom is not putting it in a fruit parfait.' But pineapple has always been a component of both sweet and savory dishes, and that's not just my opinion. It's a matter of thousands of years of culture and tradition!"
    
    That is perhaps overselling things a bit, but when Genma gets fired up over something, it is more about the spirit of passion than it is about being factual.
    So, he may be off by a millennium or two, but no-one is going to correct him now; not with his pride on the line. 
    
    "Alright, whoa, no-one's impugning your culture--"
    
    Genma stabs the tabletop with one strident finger. "You absolutely are, Aoba! Or did you not just call me and my entire family heathens?"
    
    "Well, no," he says meekly. "That was Raidou."
    
    And Raidou, without missing a beat says, "I apologize. While I do not personally like pineapple _at all_, I do recognize your right to enjoy it free of judgment." 
    
    "There," says Genma. "Was that so hard?"
    
    Meanwhile, Iwashi is tucking into his third slice with carefree indulgence, unimpressed by the noisy politicking of his dinner companions. He came here to eat pizza and drink beer, and by god, that is what he'll do. With mayo and banana peppers. Because it's so fucking good, he says. "Try dipping a French fry--here, right in the mayo."
    
    "Oh, that's crazy good," says Genma. "Hey, shall we do shots?"
    
    Iwashi dips another fry. "Are you buying?"
    
    "Yeah, I'll buy," says Genma. "Just for us, though. Those two philistines can pay for themselves."
    
    Aoba says, "I envy the youth of today." Though he is still quite game for doing shots at the bar before they leave. He says there's a curfew on, but only for those under twenty.
    
    In order of oldest to youngest, they drink, and they tap the bar two times with their shot glasses.
    
    Raidou inclines his head. "Iwashi's twenty three, right?"
    
    "Twenty-three and a half," Iwashi confirms.
    
    Younger than Hayate by two months, as good as ancient they way they'd both act at times. They grew up in the same neighborhood, attended the same homeroom at academy, sparred together, studied together, and even graduated together.
    
    "After that," Iwashi says, "I don't know. We sort of...drifted apart."  
    
    The memorial pavilion is quiet this time of night, and empty but for the four of them and one vocal hoot owl in some nearby tree. The air is warm, but not as still as earlier in the day, and they stand clustered along the wooden railing, eating durian ice-cream with tiny little spoons, and looking out on the valley below.
    
    The darkened treetops billow and sway like the backs of dragons, jagged leaves like scales and teeth, rippling and yawning large with every gust of wind. There's no moon tonight, but the stars are out, and if one squints, they might see venus.
    
    "We're not canceling the exams, are we?" Iwashi says. He hadn't been at the meeting this morning, but he'd gotten word along with the rest of intel just minutes prior.
    
    "No," says Aoba. "We're to go ahead as planned."
    
    And damn the consequences. Damn the fact that they'll be fresh after burying one of their own, aged twenty three, soon to be engaged. He was never meant to live past twenty-one, twenty-five at the oldest, but he'd wanted to get married before that happened. He'd wanted a wedding with all of his friends and family in attendance, and he'd wanted them to all toast him and his bride at the reception, but now he is having a funeral instead. 
    
    "It's not right," says Raidou. "It's just not right."
    
    And no-one is arguing that. But you want to rank, and you want to be recognized so badly that you'll think of nothing else. Lie, cheat, murder and steal your way to the top, and step on as many people as you can on your way up. If you're a genius, they'll applaud you for it. If you die, then you were never really that smart to begin with. Too bad, so sad.
    
    It's festival time in Konoha, and they will bloody well be putting on a show.
    


End file.
